Searching
by TropicalBlend
Summary: Angel is given a second chance at life after the End of Days. The only catch is that he is given a new face, a new life.  Can he find what he is searching for? Even when he doesn't know what it was.
1. Prologue

_None of the characters in this story belong to me. I only own the plot.   
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This story is set post-series finale of Angel. May be slightly AU, especially if you consider any of the graphic novels. If the characters are not exactly as depicted in the television show, I apologize.

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Prologue_

The last thing he remembered was attacking a dragon. He was just about to thrust his sword into the belly of the beast but a sound, that of warriors joining the battle, distracting him at the last minute. He couldn't recall if he had been able to deliver the final blow. One minute he was surrounded by all manners of hellish creatures, and the next minute he was standing in an empty circular room. The room had no windows, no doors, just walls of wood with a raised platform of seats. He turned in circles wondering how he got there. He looked down at his hands, thinking that it might confirm that he was still there, that he wasn't dreaming, that he wasn't dead, or in a hell dimension. Not that a simple glance at his pale hands could confirm that.

Suddenly he was surrounded by whispers, by faces; faces that were vaguely familiar. On a second glance, it hit him. These were all Angelus' victims, his victims. It was overwhelming to see them all, to be face to face with them all. He hung his head in shame; he could not bring himself to look any of them in the eye. He had caused so much pain to each and every person in this room; he had damned them all, including himself.

He knew where he was now. Judgment. His final judgment. He died and now they were going to decide where to send him. He didn't know why they were even bothering with a trial. He knew where he deserved to go, to the deepest, darkest hell imaginable. Why couldn't they send him there straight away instead of the putting him through a torturous trial? He knew where they should send him. Why didn't they? After all, what does 8 years of good deeds compare with over 250 years evil, torturous actions?

"Angel." A feminine voice spoke his name, but he couldn't lift his head to meet her eyes. He had caused so much anguish, so much suffering; he had no right to gaze upon any occupant of this room.

"Angel." She spoke again and he reluctantly lifted his head. There, sitting directly in front of him was a face that was seared into his mind, a face that had haunted him for decades; the young gypsy princess whose murder had resulted in the return of his soul. Worse yet, sitting next to her was Jenny Calendar, the Sunnydale high teacher, sent by the gypsies to ensure that he was still suffering for his crimes. He had snapped her neck after attaining a single moment of perfect happiness which had released his soul. She was a vivid reminder that he wasn't a good person, vampire, whatever; he was a beast that wasn't worthy.

"Do you know why you are here?" The gypsy princess asked in a soft tone. He nodded his head in acceptance; all capability of speech had left him.

"You died in a great battle. After eliminating the senior partners, their minions attacked, and you stood and fought. Now you're dead, and we need to decide what to do with you." She paused and looked around at those gathered. "Over the last eight years you have sought to make amends. With only a few falters over that time, you have done a great amount of good, have helped many people. And for that, you no longer deserve a place in hell for the rest of eternity."

Angel was shocked. Not sent to hell? For years of slaughter? How could he even contemplate the possibility?

"However, we cannot allow you into Heaven either. You have not yet secured a place for yourself there. Only those that have completely removed the taint of evil can be allowed admittance."

That made sense, he could never be allowed into Heaven; that was a place for those that were pure and inherently good. It was for people like Buffy. He shook off thoughts of the girl, the only woman who had completely captured his heart. Sure there had been others, but none that had touched him as deeply as her. No one had given him the feeling, in all his years of being a vampire, of what it was like to be human, to be worth of love, or to love someone else with everything in his heart. But now was not the time to be thinking of Buffy.

"So what do we do with you Angel? We can't let you into Heaven and we can't send you to Hell. It was quite a dilemma."

So they had decided. Maybe they would send him to the void. The place where there was no good, no evil, no nothing; just you, and your thoughts, for the rest of eternity. On second thought, maybe hell would be better considering the amount of murder and mayhem he had performed as Angleus.

"Therefore, we are going to give you an opportunity to earn your place. A clean slate. It will be your choices from now on that will determine your place in the afterlife.

"But how?" Angel was bewildered at this turn of events. What did they mean? To what choices could they possibly be alluding?

"The Shanshu prophecy."

"But … I signed that away."

"And it was precisely that decision that earned you this chance at redemption. That selfless act, putting the world before everything you've ever hoped for, choosing the greater good over the chance at a normal, happy life. Giving up a priceless reward was the only way to earn said reward."

"But I don't deserve it. Let someone else go back, get their life back. They shouldn't have died."

One of his other victims spoke up. "You would take away their peacefulness? You would rip them away from Heaven?"

"No." He answered quickly, "I just thought …"

"Enough." The gypsy princess commanded in a firm voice. "It is not for you to decide. We have made our decision. You will become human."

"Thank you." He murmured in acceptance. It was not up to him to question the judgments of the Powers That Be. He had tried that before, and the result was the same regardless. Some things were just meant to be. He guessed that They knew that better than anyone.

"But there are several conditions, some of which you will not be happy with." At that, Angel looked up quickly.

"We could not agree. As you know you have hurt many people. Some of whom have not forgiven you. Some of whom do not believe you should be allowed the chance of happiness."

Again he hung his head; he agreed with them. He shouldn't get this opportunity, but he wasn't about to argue. A small blossom of hope had started to bloom in his chest. He may lose Buffy yet.

"So we have come to the conclusion that while you will become human, you will have no memory of your previous life. There was major disagreement on this point since you wouldn't have to bear the weight of your previous crimes. But since we are given you the opportunity to earn a place in Heaven, it will be completely on you to make new choices to dictate the nature of your life."

The flicker of warmth that had symbolized the chance that he and Buffy could be together, after fighting the love that existed between them for the last eight years, had died. What were the chances they would find each other again if he had no recollection of her and what they had?

"Buffy …" he whispered, longing thick in his voice at the thought of never seeing her again.

"Ah yes, the complication," the gypsy paused. "We know of the love that you two share. It is very powerful; some have even gone as far as to suggest that you may be soulmates."

The confusion on Angel's face was evident.

"I know you would expect, as representatives of the Powers That Be, we would know whether or not you are soul mates, but we were not given that information. It was felt that if we knew the answer definitively it would influence our decision. So while we do not have complete knowledge on the subject, we were privileged with your's and Buffy's feelings for each other, along with understanding of your time together and apart."

Anger flushed through him. How dare they invade on his privacy like that, on Buffy's privacy? Their time together was special, intimate. But he swallowed his annoyance, and waited for the rest of the verdict.

"We are split on the issue. Some of us feel that preventing the two of you from being together we are dealing the ultimate punishment, something worthy of your deeds. However, others feel that this is unjust to the slayer. She has only ever strived to defeat the forces of evil. To deprive her of this chance of happiness would be a completely unfair consequence. Therefore, should you meet up with Buffy at some point in the future, you will regain all your memories."

Relief washed over him. There was a chance, a small possibility that he wouldn't lose Buffy forever.

"Of course, a simple meeting won't do. You shall have to demonstrate your love for one another. And she will not recognize you."

Only remember their past if he and Buffy fall in love again? What are the odds of that happening? And having the timing right? After she's ready for a relationship, but before someone else snaps her up. What if she forgets him? Worse, what if she doesn't forget him, and won't let him get close enough for them to fall in love again. Angel shook his head in despair. This trial was full of emotional ups and downs. If they were trying to torture him, they were certainly succeeding.

"However, due to your previous concerns about that by being human you wouldn't be able to protect the slayer, we have decided to leave you with your vampire abilities. That is, you will maintain: superhuman strength, quickness, and healing. But be warned, you aren't invincible, you can be harmed or even killed. It will just require a more severe blow than that of a normal person. With these capabilities, you will be able to continue fighting supernatural battles if you so choose."

"Not that I'll be able to remember anything about the supernatural." Angel huffed to himself.

"So I say it, so shall it be." With that final statement by the gypsy princess, Angel found himself standing with Jenny Calender. Everyone else in the room had disappeared, giving Angel no opportunity to argue.

"I asked to be your guide back to earth. Not that you need one since we'll be placing you there anyway. But I wanted to speak to you. Let you in on a few things, theories really, that the council didn't go over. Hopefully it'll reassure you."

"Ms. Calender, I …" Angel spoke softly, scared to broach the subject but knowing he must. He couldn't pass up the opportunity to apologize for, well, killing her.

"Angel," she cut him off, "leave it. It's not your fault. If I had been truthful from the beginning, up front about what I knew, the whole thing could have been avoided. Besides, I know it wasn't you."

"But…"

"The council doesn't understand." She shook her head. "None of them had direct contact with both Angel and Angelus. They don't recognize that you are two separate entities that happen to share the same body. Sure, one has some influence over the other, but constant nagging from anyone is bound to have some results." Jenny gave a half smile.

Ever since the First Evil appeared to him as Jenny, he had always expected bitterness and anger from Jenny Calender. To find some absolution, was like a huge weight off his soul.

"I know you deserve this chance Angel. And even though I don't believe you require my forgiveness, as you had no control over what happened, you should know that you have it."

"Thank you." Angel was deeply touched by her words.

" I want you to know I campaigned for you not to lose your memories. I believe that you and Buffy are soulmates." She smirked at her own words. "Soulmates sounds so clichéd; a childhood word that people toss around so easily. But I believe that some souls have a deep connection that lives on through death. The souls of these special people, for not every soul has a mate, recognize each other in spite of superficial trappings. That those souls are drawn together regardless of geography. They are not meant to be separated for forever, just long enough that they can appreciate what they found."

A flutter of hope ignited in his belly once more. Maybe there was a chance he and Buffy would be together again. Even the smallest possibility was good enough for Angel because he knew some things were worth fighting for.

"Good luck Angel. I'll be rooting for you." Jenny started to fade. "When you remember and see Giles, let him know I want him to be happy."

Angel nodded and then everything went black.


	2. Chapter 1

_Chapter 1_

The first thing he noticed when he awoke was the overwhelming smell of sweat and dust. The sickeningly sweet stench surrounded him and he could taste grittiness in his mouth. Disoriented he sat up, only to realize that his body ached all over. He could feel the hard ground directly beneath the thin blanket underneath him and the tent enclosing him had seen better days. But why was he here? Shock coursed through him. He had no recollection of why he was in a tent. Worse, he had no idea who he was, not even a glimpse of his former life, whatever it may have been.

Panicked he rummaged through his belongings for some clue to who he was. After a few minutes of frantic searching, he was relieved to discover some travelers cheques and a passport in a pack. He set the cheques aside and opened the passport: Eamon O'Connor, born 1975 in County Galway, Ireland. Instantly his tense body relaxed. He had a name, an identity. It didn't matter that he had felt no twinge of recognition at the sound of his name. All that mattered was that he now had a indication of his identity.

He glanced at the picture on the side of the page, and was somewhat surprised at what he saw. The man in the picture had reddish-brown shaggy hair, bright blue eyes, and an aquiline nose. It was an attractive face but not what he imagined; all the features were light when he expected dark, cheerful when he anticipated brooding, soft instead of hard. The person in the picture was not familiar. Not familiar in the least.

He rubbed his jaw, the stubble from a few days growth irritated his skin. He reasoned that if he couldn't remember his name, not remembering his looks was not a far stretch. Besides, looking around the tent it was obvious that he hadn't been in front of a mirror in awhile.

He shrugged and picked up the travelers cheques. He flipped through the fairly substantial stack. He was stunned to find they amounted to almost $100000. It seemed strange that he would be carrying such a large quantity of money. What reason could he possibly have to keep this amount of funds on his person?

He searched through the rest of his packs to see if he could find any more clues: food and water for several days, a map of Mongolia, an around the world airline ticket, clothes for several days, and a silver chain with a cross on it. He was puzzled by this collection of items. Was he in Mongolia? Why did he have an open airline ticket? Was he deeply religious? He didn't feel any overwhelming religious connection but why else would he have a cross?

But it wasn't just the items that he found that were strange; there was a curious lack of things. Where were his other identification cards? Where were his visa or debit cards? Why didn't he have any pictures of family and friends? Did that mean he had no one waiting for him? He couldn't have been robbed. Thieves would hardly take personal items over his passport and traveler's cheques.

What was going on? And who was he? Was he Eamon O'Connor or someone else entirely? For the first time since he read the name off the passport, he doubted that it was him. Maybe he was the thief.

* * *

Much later he pushed open the tent flap and crawled out. The sun was bright and there was no breeze to speak of. He turned in a circle with his arms out to the side, basking in the light. The feeling of warmth spread through him, delighting him.

Shadows in the distance caught his eye. On the horizon, horses with riders were blocking the sun. Maybe they knew who he was, or at the very least knew where he was. He raised his hand in greeting. But it was several minutes before there was any acknowledgement from the strangers. A single horse and rider approached him and he waited patiently for the rider to speak.

"Сайн байна уу." The man spoke in a foreign language. Eamon shook his head in confusion; he had no idea what the stranger was saying.

The man spoke again, "Добрый день." This time Eamon understood; the man was saying good afternoon. Eamon replied back in turn. The words felt funny in his mouth, rusty, like he had once been comfortable speaking the language but hadn't tried in awhile.

The man held up his hand and beckoned the rest of his group. As they waited for the others to reach them, Eamon tried to question the visitor.

"Who are you? Where am I?" But no more words were spoken between the two, as the rider turned to rejoin the rest of his people. Eamon stood there dumbly, watching as the people began to make camp all around his tent. He tried to speak to other members of the camp, but they just ignored him. Frustrated he started to pace. Why were they here, especially if they wouldn't talk to him? Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Come."

It was the man from earlier. He gestured towards the shelter in the center of the camp. Eamon walked forward until he reached the flap on the door. He hesitated and stared at the opening. What or who would he find inside? He took a deep breath and stepped inside.

In the far corner, an old man sat hunched over a fire. He gestured to a mat in front of him. Eamon took a seat, bowed his head, and waited for the man to speak. Eamon realized that the situation would seem odd to some; how he knew this he had no idea. But he did know that it didn't seem out of the ordinary to him. What kind of man was he if he found sitting in the tent of an old man he didn't know in what he thought was the steppes of Mongolia not strange at all?

He was shaken out of his thoughts at the sound of the old man's voice. "My child, you have many questions."

Eamon nodded in response, even though he knew without a doubt that it wasn't a question. It wasn't his time to speak, as much as he wanted to shout, to demand answers, he knew that he could not force the man to give him any information.

The old man waved his hand over the smoke; his eyes were fixated on something that Eamon could not see. "I will answer what I can, but know that I do not have all the knowledge that you seek, and cannot tell you all I know."

Again Eamon nodded. Somehow he knew that it was not in the nature of holy men to be forthcoming. He still waited for permission to speak. It would not do to offend the only potential source of answers he had.

"Ask what you will."

"Who am I? Am I Eamon O'Connor?" The strain of the situation transferred to the tone of his voice.

"Who you are has not been decided yet; you are who you make yourself. The choices you make in the future will dictate who you are."

Cryptic, but Eamon expected no less. No one that knew anything substantial liked to give straight answers. He would have to assume that Eamon was who he was meant to be, even if it wasn't who he was.

"Why am I here?"

"You were sent here as were we."

"Why?" Eamon's question escaped as almost a growl.

"To guide you to your path, to set you on your way."

"What is my path?" He demanded.

"That is for you to decide." The calm in the man's voice caused Eamon's aggravation level to rise. While he had anticipated mysticism and obscurity, it did not make it any less irritating to sit through.

"Why can't I remember anything? Can I get memory back?" Eamon struggled to keep his voice polite, but it was a battle he was quickly losing.

"You have been given a new life. Use it as you will."

Eamon felt like punching a wall. He knew that the interview was finished but he had to try one more question. He had to try and gain some direction. "Where do I go from here?"

Surprisingly, the man replied. Maybe he sensed Eamon's despair underneath the outward anger. "Follow you instincts. They will lead you where you are meant to go."

Eamon slumped his shoulders at that statement. How could he know where to go from here? Especially when he didn't know where he'd been.

* * *

The other members of the camp avoided Eamon as he packed up his gear. Finally, when he had gathered everything, Eamon searched out the young man he had first greeted. After some convincing, in what Eamon had concluded was Russian, the man pointed him in the direction of Ulaanbaatar. If any thing Eamon knew, it was that his destiny did not lie in Northern Mongolia.

As he hiked across the steppes toward the capital, Eamon thought about the best place to go to figure out his past. Logically, he knew that Ireland was probably his best shot. But without an address or any indication of a family waiting, he did not feel drawn there. If anything, there was something holding him back. He knew that there was someone out there that could help, and he knew without a doubt that he would not find them in Ireland. Maybe he should travel to Russia. He knew the language, which hinted that he had at least spent some time there.

He had no idea how to go about searching for details of his past. The world was a big place, and he had no idea where to start. Although, the shaman seemed to know who he was, or at least have an idea. Maybe he should visit some other, similar type people, people who leaned toward the more supernatural side of things. It seemed likely that they may be able to give some clues to his past. However vague those hints may be.


End file.
